As I mentioned in a previous posting, football is huge here, especially during the World Cup. It becomes the topic of most conversations, the streets are plastered with ads, and the TV flashes constant updates. But tonight, it all came to an end – a sad end for France.

We decide to go early to a great bar called the Great Canadian that is perched on the banks of the Seine, a stone’s throw from Notre Dame. Ashley and I arrive four hours ahead of time to guarantee our group a seat. When we walk in, we are surprised to find the bar totally packed. But instead of raving France fans decked in blue, most people are focused on the Wimbledon final.

We manage to snag two barstools close to a large table. By smiling, polite chit chat and buying them a round of drinks, we convince the people at the table to let us take their seats once the tennis match is over. We have to fight off several groups of people for the seats, but in the end we are triumphant and have a great spot for the game.

An hour before the game begins, the bar begins to fill up. People stream in off the street, pushing everyone close together. The French don’t really have a concept of personal space like the Americans do. Once the game begins, even though I’m sitting on a tall chair, I can feel the guy behind pressing into my back. In fact, I think it’s his sweat, not mine, that dampens the back of my tank top. Yeah, kind of creepy, but that’s how crowded it is in the bar – not to mention extremely loud.

The first half is a nail biter. France quickly scores, but Italy isn’t far behind. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the TV screens lining the bar. It’s ungodly hot with all the bodies pressed into each other, so everyone’s face has a slight sheen. We fan ourselves with extra menus and pray our deodorant holds out. No one in our group really speaks since it’s hard to hear over the noise.

At the half, Dominique and I decide to leave. Chalk it up to being too old, having a case of claustrophobia, wanting to be out of the craziness, or being tired of the guy next to me dripping sweat on my thigh, I’m glad to be leaving. It’s almost impossible to leave the bar. We have to literally shove people aside to make room. Once outside, we take deep breaths and feel the cool air evaporate our perspiration. Free at last.

I jump on the Metro home that is completely deserted. Hardly anyone dares move from the TV. When I arrive home, I’m surprised Madame isn’t there watching the game. I attempt to turn on the TV to catch the second half, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how. I give up after a few minutes and settle on my open window. I can hear the cheers and groans of the crowd so I can almost tell what’s going on. The family below me chants Zidane’s name at the top of their lungs. I take a shower, start my laundry and paint my toenails, listening out the window. I can tell no one has scored, but there have been some close attempts.

I text Dominique and tell her my plight. She promises to keep me informed. A few minutes later, she tells me Zidane got kicked out of the game for headbutting an opponent. Strange behavior for him since he’s the most sportsmanlike of all the players. Plus this is his last game. After tonight, it’s rumored he’s going into retirement. Evidently when you’re 30-something, it’s quite old in this game.

The game ends in a tie and the players get ready for penalty kicks. I call Dominique for a blow by blow. I don’t want to miss the final minutes.

Italy scores. Dominique cheers while everyone out the window groans. She’s rooting for Italy.

France scores. It’s tied.

Italy scores again.

France misses. The score is 2-1.

Italy scores.

France scores. 3-2.

Italy scores.

Sagnol with France is up. If he misses this goal, Italy will win. The weight of the world is on his shoulders. He scores and the crowd goes wild.

Italy is up. If they make this goal, they win. Dominique sighs heavily. I’m on pins and needles. Italy scores. Dominique screams. They’ve won.

Dominique describes the defeat – the looks on the faces of the French players. Since she’s watching a French TV station, they don’t focus on the Italian celebration. The French players sit stunned on the grass. To goalie looks like he’s about to cry. It’s a heartbreaking moment in Paris and all around France.

I hang up with Dominique, bidding her a good night. It’s oddly silent out my window. A few sirens here and there pierce the silence, but it’s a far cry from the celebration everyone had hoped for. I grab my damp laundry and head out to the balcony under and almost full moon to hang it up. A lone fan whistles the French national anthem. My heart goes out to French people everywhere.

Allez Les Bleus!

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